


Tending the Kingslayer

by Magnetism_bind



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-30
Updated: 2012-04-30
Packaged: 2017-11-04 13:51:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/394589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnetism_bind/pseuds/Magnetism_bind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robb asks his mother to tend to the ailing prisoner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tending the Kingslayer

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the You Win Or You Die kink meme on LJ.

“You want me to do _what_?” Cat stares at her son incredulously. 

Robb takes a deep breath and repeats his words. “The Kingslayer is ill. I want you to tend him.” He knew she would react this way, but he still has to ask it of her. “You've said it before, he's our best chance of getting the girls back. We can't afford to lose him, Mother.” 

“But why me?” She can't bear to be near the man, knowing what he did to Bran. 

“Because I can't trust anyone else.” Robb sinks into his chair. For a moment he looks impossibly young to be dealing with such a weight. Cat feels a pang as she gazes at her oldest son. He should not have to deal with this. His father should be here. 

_Ned._

Her heart aches. She can't think of him, not now. Not when she has to deal with Jaime Lannister. 

“Very well.” 

“Thank you, Mother.” Robb smiles at her, his relief evident in his eyes.

Cat kisses the top of his hair, and says nothing.

* * * 

She has the prisoner brought to her tent. There's no possibility of tending him properly in that cage, and if Robb wants him well, then she has to tend him properly. 

Two guards bring him in, half dragging, half pulling the Kingslayer along. His head is slumped between his shoulders, his chains dragging. He certainly doesn't look well.

“Put him over there.” Cat orders, nodding to the bed. She's had water heated, and fresh linen cloths brought to clean him. The guards let the Kingslayer down onto the bed. “Now, remove his chains.”

“Is that wise, Lady Stark?”

“Where is he going to go in this condition?” She demands. The man can barely hold his head up at the moment.

The guards look at each other, unwilling to disobey, yet reluctant to release the Kingslayer. 

“If you don't do it,” Cat's voice is ice, “I will have you sent before the King and he will want to know why you've refused to follow his orders.”

They fall over each other to unlock the chains. 

“Is that all, my lady?”

“Yes, you may go.” She doesn't want them there, but when they're gone she is along with the Kingslayer. 

“Remind me not to anger you, Lady Stark.” His voice is hoarse. 

Cat glances at his forehead in spite of herself, and he chuckles weakly. “Oh, that's right...I already have.”

She ignores him as she tries to decide what to deal with first. He's burning with fever, his clothes are damp from the dew and the last bout of rain they had. Dried blood still coats his face and hair. Cat is appalled. How could Rob have let this happen...even to such a man as this?

She takes up the knife from the table, gratified to see a wary expression in Jaime Lannister's eyes. For a moment she wonders how it would feel to press the knife to his skin, until she draws blood and pain from him. Then she sets the knife to his shirt and calmly cuts it from his feverish body. 

He lies there, watching her with half-lidded eyes. “I thought I wasn't welcome in your bed, Lady Stark.”

“You'll waste what little strength you have if you keep talking.” She hesitates barely at all before starting to cut off his trousers. 

“Don't you have servants to do this sort of thing?” Jaime whispers hoarsely. “Or do you just want to keep my body all to yourself?”

Cat snorts. “You must think very highly of your seductive powers if you think any woman would want you as you are now.”

“I'm nearly naked and helpless.” Jaime smiles faintly. “What woman could resist?”

Cat tosses aside the remnants of his trousers.”You're feverish and filthy.” She soaks a cloth in cool water to place on his brow while she washes the rest of him. 

To Cat's surprise he keeps silent while she washes the dirt from his bare skin, his face half turned away from hers, staring at the tent folds as her hands move over his body. His body is rigid with tension and Cat wonders how long it's been since anyone has touched him thus. 

He's just a man, sword-hand, sinew, and cock like the rest of them...yet, the Kingslayer is not just any man. Cat doesn't know what kind of man he is...what kind of man pushes a helpless child from a tower. Her hand clenches tightly without her meaning to, and Jaime winces as her fingers dig into his thigh.

“I'm sorry.” Cat pulls her hand back.

Jaime looks at her. “Why are you apologizing to me?” 

Cat blinks. It was a reflex, nothing else. The same way she still eats and sleeps (or tries to sleep), the way her heart still beats whether she wants it or not. Because she's alive and Ned isn't, and they still have two daughters in King's Landing, and two sons at home. She has to keep those reflexes, they are the only thing keeping her on her feet. 

She takes the cloth from his forehead. He's a little cooler, but still far too warm. Covering him with a blanket, she goes to the chair where she curls up, eyes watching the dozing man in her bed.

 

* * *

She changes the cloth again in an hour. 

“Why are you bothering?” Jaime doesn't look at her. His voice is raw, he can barely talk.

“Because my son commanded.” Cat places the fresh cloth across his brow and he closes his eyes for a moment, then...

“That doesn't mean you have to do it.” Jaime whispers. “He, of all people, would understand if you let me die. Surely...” He's racked by a cough that leaves him rasping. 

“Be quiet.” Cat straightens the blanket around him, pulling it closer. 

For once Jaime does as he's told. 

When she she checks him next, his fever's risen and his skin is burning with sweat. Something inside Cat breaks, clawing its way out of her. “Don't you dare die.” She hisses. “Don't you _dare_.” 

She calls for fresh water and starts to wash him all over once again.

“If we were home, I'd have ice,” she tells him, even though he's not listening. They kept it in the cellars, dank and cold. Of course, if she were at Winterfell someone else would be looking after Jaime Lannister. Her hands would not be where they are now, upon his body. 

Jaime slips in and out of fever for the next three days. Cat doesn't sleep. She grows more familiar with his face and body as she tends him through the cold nights and long, long days. Sometimes he reaches out, his hand grasping emptily. Cat relents and slips her fingers into his. It is a moment, nothing significant. He will never remember it. She tries not to think of this hand that's holding her so tight, as the same that pushed her son. 

He speaks in his fever at times, low words she can't quite hear. The only name he calls is Cersei. Still, when Cat tries to move away, it's her hand he clutches at, clasped between his fevered fingers. 

 

* * * 

On the fourth night his fever breaks at last, and when she looks at him, his eyes are clear. When she presses her hand to his brow, it's cool. The relief that rushes through her is overwhelming. Cat feels tears welling in her eyes at the thought of what could easily have happened and turns away so he can't see.

“There's no need to hide your tears from me, Lady Stark.” 

Cat presses her lips together, composing herself before she turns back. “You are mistaken, ser. I am merely tired.”

“I see.” His hand reaches out and catches her wrist. 

Cat freezes, staring down at his fingers. Was it this hand? Was it the other? Does it matter? She wants to pull free, but the fingers hold her, as his thumb strokes against her skin. 

“Thank you.” 

“There's no need,” Cat starts, and his thumb presses hard into her wrist.

“For having me in your bed,” A smile steals over his lips. “It wasn't quite how I pictured it.”

Cat stares at him, and then, to her surprise, she starts to laugh. It spills out of her relentlessly, until it's tears mixed with laughter. She slides to the ground beside the bed, pressing her hands to her eyes as she weeps and laughs. 

She's so very very tired. 

There's a hand on her shoulder. Cat looks up to see Jaime looking down at her, with something that looks strangely close to concern. 

“Here.” He pulls the blanket back, offering the space beside him. 

“If you think,”

Jaime sighs. “You've not slept for the nights you've tended me.” He waits, knowing he's right. 

Cat doesn't move.

“I give you my word as a knight that I will not touch you in an unseemly fashion.” Jaime recites the words tonelessly. “Though probably that doesn't mean very much.”

At that she laughs again, then takes his hand and pulls herself up. The space beside Jaime is warm from his heat and she sinks into it gratefully. They lie there stiffly beside each other, and then he pulls the blanket over her, his hand brushing her waist accidentally. Cat catches it, holding it there against her hip. At last she sleeps, with Jaime's arm around her, the candle burning low into the night, casting shadows on the tent wall.


End file.
